Journey to Nowhere

As told by The Woodcarver.

A novel - recounting the many and varied adventures of the Woodcarver and the King - reminiscent of Hector Mallot's "Sans Famille" & Paul Gallico's "Love of the Seven Dolls".

For a synopsis Click here. For illustrations & music click on the chain icons.

1

He stood in the aircraft's open doorway, hands against the rim, and looked down four kilometres to where the bulbous earth was, its edges curved as if seen through a fish-eye lens. "That will give me 80 seconds before impact," he thought. If your whole life was supposed to pass before your eyes in the last second before death, he would have plenty of time to review the passing parade. He stuck his head a little farther out, felt the wind, and laughed bitterly at a world that looked, from this height, deceitfully benign. But he knew better.

He moved one step back into the fuselage. The others had jumped on the last pass over the drop zone, so he was alone, apart from the pilot up front.

"Steady as she goes," he called, to let the man know he was on course. As if it mattered. Still, do things normally and save the fellow from being traumatised. It would be bad enough, upon landing, to discover the unused parachute on the floor.

So, this was it. From somewhere just outside his body, he watched as his hands moved up and undid the chest strap. Then they slid down with the fluidity of a somnambulist and undid the two heavy thigh buckles. He eased off the shoulder straps and lowered the parachute to the floor.

"Thanks for the ride," he called in his customary way. The pilot nodded on automatic. Then he leapt.

2

Deadline was approaching and all that could be heard in the vast fluorescent-lit newsroom was the pounding of computer keyboards by the army of journalists. It was the white sound of contained energy, like that of high voltage in a power station.

One man was not plugged into that frenzy of activity. His work station might well have been an island, so detached was he from all that was going on about him. Sigurd Olivier, in his early fourties and wearing a suit, moustache and trim beard, sat at his desk and stared despondently into space. Open in front of him was a package containing the hundreds of pages of a manuscript. His vacant gaze drifted down to the letter in his hand, then he leaned forward and pinned it to a pin board, where it joined a host of other, similar letters interspersed with a few photographs of himself skydiving. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. He always broke out in a sweat when he had that nightmare.

He was still staring at the board when Rick Struve, the news editor, brandished a sheet of copy in front of his nose.

“We’ve got the makings of a good story here, but all you’ve given me is bare bones. Where’s the flesh!” he snapped. Lowering his voice, he went on. “This is what I’d expect from a cub reporter, not from someone of your experience. Huh?”

Sensing he wasn’t making contact, he followed Sigurd’s gaze to the pin board.

“Another rejection?” he asked with hurried sympathy. “Well, you know what they say? Perseverence pays. There are plenty of publishers out there-”

“No,” Sigurd cut him short. “If I can’t get the message after 39 rejections, well, I must be as thick as two short planks.” He pushed his chair back with his feet and swivelled so he could look Rick in the eye. “The truth is... The truth is they don’t want my masterpiece.” Then with a degree of self-mockery: “And it was meant to be my ticket out of this hell-hole-”

“Hell-hole! You’re working for one of the best newspapers in-”

“Sure. So was Paul. Before he put a bullet through his head. And Joop, before he gassed himself last year. And Wagner, who cannot even recognise his own wife and kid any more he’s cracked up so bad. I’m scared, Rick, scared I might be next. Only bad news is news and you can’t keep digging around in all that shit without getting spattered.”

He got up and crossed to the window, his back to Rick, and muttered, more to himself than to be heard: “There must be another way. There must be.”

Rick laid a hand gently on his shoulder. “Come on. I’ll buy you lunch.”

Sigurd did not respond at first, but kept staring out the window which offered a view of the famous Amsterdam square, Leidseplein. Down there, a few storeys below, was bustle and noise, song and dance. As trams clanged by, a large crowd watched enthusiastically the antics of a unicyclist juggling fire-sticks. His ghetto blaster battled the decibels as a distorted voice sang:

“On Leidseplein we listened well
The juggler he did say
Paradise my friend you’ll find
At a place called Bingil Bay.”

For his finale the artiste tossed his sticks higher than ever in the air, up to the sky, over the moon, and down again, catching them adroitly. Then, feigning imbalance, he teetered in the direction of the prettiest damsel - he had spotted her at the outset - and clung desperately to her neck.

3

An hour later Rick and Sigurd were sitting on a terrace in the same square, their table littered with dirty plates, coffee cups, wine bottle, one glass on Rick’s side, several glasses of different shape and size on Sigurd’s side. In the background the street performers were still doing their thing. Sigurd, looking rather wild, was holding forth.

“...I am. And not only me. We’re all in chains. Society has created us in its own image. Only, I want a way out. I’m looking for a window in that brick wall where I can climb through-”

“Alice ‘Through the Looking Glass’... ‘The Never-Ending Story’... You’re not the first person to fantasize about a Shangi-la-”

“But that’s just it, don’t you see? I don’t want to fantasize about it. I want to actually do it! Only-” He was close to tears now. “Only, I can’t find that window in the wall.”

“Look, you’ve been under a lot of strain at home. Is Viv still pressing for a divorce?”

Sigurd rocked more than nodded, enveloped in anguish. Rick called for the bill, paid, and they made their way through the crowd. A clown was going through his routine. Dressed in white bunny suit with large red dots, oversized shoes, and painted face, he kept banging his large red nose to make hooting sounds. A row of four girls, aged around ten, with school satchels on their backs, their arms linked, were mischievously mimicking his every move. At first he tried to proceed with his routine, but then realised he could play in on this. His movements became more and more convoluted, with him pausing regularly to allow the girls - if they dared - to double his act. And game they certainly were!

Sigurd slowed, then stopped, his face lighting up as he was drawn into this spontaneous play. Rick stood fidgeting next to him. Sigurd began to work his way through the crowd. He turned once to beckon to Rick to join him, but Rick rolled his eyes to heaven and motioned impatiently for Sigurd to come along now. But Sigurd was moving with the overexcitement of one who has found that window in the wall. Highly irritated, Rick turned on his heel and walked briskly off to the newsroom. Sigurd pressed on till he was in the front row of the crowd, right behind the four girls. He watched them briefly, then with hesitant movements began to mimic them. Very quickly he got into the full swing of things, boldly linked arms with the spectators on either side of him, they linked with their neighbours, till the entire front row was mimicking the clown in unison with the four girls. He kicked up his left leg, the crowd kicked up their left legs. He threw back his head, they threw back their heads. It ended with him falling over backwards, the crowd doing likewise, landing in a heap of abandoned laughter.

Standing in the window of the newsroom watching this, was Rick. At his shoulder stood an older, white-haired man, the editor. Their looks were decidedly sober.

The crowd dispersed as the clown packed up the tools of his trade and a group of Peruvian musicians in colourful hand-woven capes moved in to take up their positions. Sigurd, still excited, moved through the thinning crowd and made for a bench. Just as he had settled himself at one end, another figure plopped down beside him. It was the juggler. He lit a joint, inhaled deeply and with immense satisfaction, then without looking sideways he offered the joint to Sigurd, who hesitated, then took it and puffed.

"Transmission of the light. Or is it lamp?" the juggler told the world at large.

"This?" asked Sigurd, holding up the joint.

"No." He gestured towards the centre of the square. "What happened out there."

"You were great. Thank you-"

The juggler turned dramatically towards Sigurd. "It is I who must thank you. 'The raincloud was full, and was grateful to the earth for receiving its water.'" With that he took the joint from Sigurd. It passed back and forth, back and forth, in silence now. Yet in that silence something was being transmitted.

Time had stopped, and when it started up again the juggler talked of life on the street.

"...Come winter, and I fly off to the Canaries or go Down Under. Australia."

"And you make good money there?"

"In Sydney, Melbourne, yes. They're more receptive than you might think, though it's musicians who are best received. Music, you see, is where the Aussies expose their souls. But there's another reason I go to Australia for the winter. Our winter. And the reason is, Bingil Bay. The rainforest comes right down to the high water mark. The Pacific is terrific. Warm as soup. And just off the coast lies the Great Barrier Reef. Man, when you go diving there you don't need this-" He holds up a joint. "-to have a psychedelic trip. As someone once said: 'It's as if you had died and found yourself in heaven, it's that beautiful.' That's where I go to unwind."

"You certainly have a wonderful life."

The juggler looked long and hard at the naive white-collar worker and considered whether or not to confront him with some of the harder facts of street life, but decided to be kind.

"Swings and roundabouts. Swings and roundabouts. The main thing is to follow your heart. Yup, that's the main thing."

A lone busker was singing:

"Some men climb the mountain
Some men swim the sea.
Some men fly above the sky
They're all what they must be..."

The light was fading. Still the two men sat there, sometimes exchanging a few words, but mostly just being the watchers. They watched people scurrying in the dusk; they watched as trams clanged workers home in the rush hour. They watched the lights come on; they watched the square emptying.

The juggler finally got to his feet, swung a large hold-all bag over one shoulder, and took the unicycle in the other hand.

"Be good, and if you can't be good, be careful." With that he was off. Sigurd gave a little wave.

The square was filling up again with the night crowd, out looking for excitement. Several groups and individuals were now busking in different parts of the square. Still Sigurd sat there, almost a fixture, until in the late night there remained only a group of Spanish musicians and a flamenco dancer. They were doing a number "Till the Singer is the Song".

Disappearing is a wonderful feeling
Sing out loud, sing out strong
Disappearing is a wonderful feeling
Sing till the singer is the song...

And the same for the dance
Here again there is the chance
For the dancer to advance
And be the dance....

Sigurd rose, and with the sound of lusty castanets in his ears, he sauntered off. It was turning out to be the longest day of his life. And it was not over, yet.

He wandered aimlessly, passing a fair that had been set up on the Dam Square. The stately old Dam Palace beyond stood in marked contrast to the frenetically flashing lights on the fairground rides.

Hands thrust deep in his pockets, his brooding figure became bathed in eery blue light as he passed the windows where prostitutes displayed themselves in the red light district. He was oblivious to their beckoning.

Like a horse drawn to water, he found himself at the docks. He stood, precariously balanced, with the toes of his shoes extending beyond the edge of the quay. In a trance, he began to sway. The lights of dockland twinkled in the rippling water, gaiety blending seamlessly with depression. His world was liquid and whoosy, the edges blurred. In his head there was banging, as of heavy iron being beaten to summons plantation workers. The tempo quickened. Now he was hurtling down a huge, flashing blue-and-red coil. His head was close to bursting. The water below started whirling, faster and faster. The metallic sound pierced his brain. A vortex opened up and he was sucked in.

4

One of the patients in the psychiatric ward stood stock-still, listening with rapt attention to the radio resting on one shoulder, and supported with one hand. At the sound of atmospheric crackle, he pressed his ear to the speaker. Beside him was a row of beds, some with patients. At the end of the row lay Sigurd in white hospital clothes, teeth clenched tightly, sweat glistening on his face, and banging his calves repeatedly on the iron foot-end of his bed. The radio listener, excited now, moved along the row towards the corner.

"There! There! You hear that? That's them. Ha aha ahaa, they're coming through loud and clear. Imagine that, all the way from the Pleiades." Suddenly he screamed: "Take me with you! Take me with you-"

"Get away from me, you madman!" Sigurd barked at him. "Can't you see I'm being eaten up? From the inside? They're in my veins! They're in my veins!"

The radio listener was startled by this outburst. Behind him a few of the other patients began shuffling forward, looking on uncomprehendingly. Sigurd, too, looked startled, not quite able to take it in that he had been the source of the commotion. Then his face screwed up and the tears began to flow, ever more, ever more....

*****

Under an overcast sky the autumn wind sent flurries of dead leaves across the almost deserted Leidseplein. Sigurd was sitting alone on the same bench as before, but wrapped now in a warm overcoat and scarf. Inside, he was empty, the very embodiment of loneliness. Where, how, was he to pick up the threads of a normal life?

"Sing for my supper," he said softly, absently to himself. "Sing for my supper. Supper. Supper." He repeated the word, sensing it could become a thread. "Supper. Cook supper. Cook." A picture from his childhood surfaced. There he was, taking a perfectly risen cake - a touch too brown at the back, but never mind - from the oven, to the applause of his mother. He rose, not so perfectly, from the bench, but with a firmness of step that enervated him further....

5

The usual pandemonium of a restaurant at peak time reigned. Chefs and assistant chefs scurried about the kitchen-cum-sauna, avoiding collision with the instinct of birds wheeling in formation. A great cloud of steam rose in one corner, hissing, and like a ship emerging from fog, there appeared Sigurd in blue-and-white scull cap, apron and galoshes to extricate another load of dishes from the industrial-sized dishwasher. He laid the stainless steel tray on a counter and drew his sleeve across his face to mop the sweat.

He liked the pressure. It kept him from thinking too much, from mulling things over endlessly and fruitlessly. The manual labour also gave him the feeling he was earning his money honestly. Even the quiet times, like the mornings, when he was employed cleaning or chopping vegetables, were physical.

"Sweat. That's it. Then you know you're living rightly. Then you're in balance," he said to no one in particular, and continued dicing turnips.

One of the kitchen hands responded with: "Before enlightenment, chopping vegetables. After enlightenment, chopping vegetables."

"Yeah. Right on," said another amiably as he stood at the back door, blowing smoke into the alley.

One night after closing time, the workers spilled out into the lane as usual and waved one another goodbye before going off in different directions. Sigurd counted his money, slipped it into his wallet, which he then pocketed. He turned the corner and entered the nearby Leidseplein. Up ahead, in the shelter of an archway, stood a collapsible table and two stools. Seated at one was a fortune-teller, cocooned in warm cape with hood, holding the hand of what appeared a rich society lady sitting on the other stool. Her hand was palm up, for a reading. Sigurd did not appear to notice them at first, but when almost past he turned his head to cast a peremptory glance in their direction, then continued resolutely on.

The next day he was adding the final touches to a row of salad bowls when the maitre d'hotel appeared to survey his handiwork.

"People eat with their eyes too!" he admonished imperiously. "Can you not try and make it a trifle more aesthetically pleasing? Hmmm?"

With that he swept two bowls from the table and strode hautily with them through the swing doors, into the restaurant, leaving Sigurd with a stunned expression on his face. Showing solidarity, one of the kitchen hands threw back his head in imitation of the maitre d'hotel, and with the tip of one finger stroked the tip of his nose in little upward movements. The others giggled, albeit a bit nervously.

That night, as they parted ways in the alley, one of the chaps called good-naturedly after Sigurd: "And I wish you an aesthetically pleasing night." They all laughed.

As he left the alley and turned the corner to enter Leidseplein he saw the fortune-teller, her back to him, jumping up and down and blowing on her hands in an effort to warm herself. He took in the scene at once, and quickly retraced his footsteps. Once back in the kitchen he filled a thermos flask with black coffee and sugar and was busy screwing on the cap when he thought of something. Casting a wary glance at the one cleaner still mopping up, he reached nonchalantly for the cooking brandy and poured generously into the flask.

This time when he rounded the corner, the fortune-teller was sitting alone but giving a cheerful impression. At the sound of his approaching footsteps, she turned her head: a new customer, perhaps?

"I brought you something to warm yourself," Sigurd said, or rather, blurted out. He cringed, realising that in his isolation of late he had lost even the veneer of social polish. But he was in now and had to save himself. "Ehmm," he tried, "I- ehm- I work at a restaurant around the corner. I was on my way home-" Here he scoffed. "Home? Huh. I was on my way home and saw you blowing on your hands. Oh god, this is looking all wrong, isn't it?" He hurriedly plonked the flask on the small table. "I'll just leave it here and be off." With which he started moving off.

The fortune-teller shook back the hood of her cape, which brought Sigurd pulling up short. He saw for the first time just how beautiful - exotically beautiful - this woman in her early thirties was. He tried to pin her origins. She had something of the gypsy, with Persian blood perhaps, and something of the European aristocrat. Her large gold earrings caught the light. Suddenly aware that he was gaping, he closed his mouth. She smiled, a big, generous smile.

"And leave me to drink alone?"

Completely off his stroke, Sigurd bumbled. "There's only one mug- cup- It's the cap. I mean, the cap is the mug. But there's only one-"

"And you have a fetish about not sharing mugs?

"No, no-"

"Then please," she motioned to the second stool, "be my guest, and I'll be..." she raised the flask, "your guest." Again she flashed that devastating smile. "My name is Yatri. And yours?"

"Sigurd." He held out his hand. She received it in hers, taking the time to look well at it.

"Beautiful hands. You should let me do a reading some time."

"I'm not earning much at the moment," he said, sitting down.

"And I'm not cheap. It would cost you, let's see... One flask of coffee. I take it this is coffee?"

"Laced with cooking brandy. That's all I could lay my hands on. The better stuff was locked away already."

"Wow! Then you get the de luxe version-"

"Well, look... Actually I don't believe in that sort of thing," he said, then added hurriedly: "I mean, I don't believe in it for me. Oh damn, now I'm goofing all over the place. I'm sorry."

"No offence taken. Honestly. These... oh, shall I say esoteric things... take a little getting used to."

She poured from the flask, savoured the smell, drank, then handed the mug to him.

"There's no hocus-pocus, like people think. Not with the genuine article, anyway."

"Yours is the genuine article, then?"

"I never pretend to see things, feel things, that I don't," she said thoughtfully. "It's a matter of opening yourself, being receptive to the other person's vibrations. And then combining intuition with common sense." Then lightly: "But I'm still learning! That is why I'm doing my apprenticeship in foreign places."

"Where are you from?"

"Where am I from? Where am I from? Oh my goodness me! Can't I just be an earthling?"

"Snap! Me too."

"Most recently, Heidelberg. If I can call any place home, now, then it's Heidelberg."

"I've only seen pictures. Medieval castle on the hill, old university. Beautiful, is it?"

"Beautiful. I'll be going back for Christmas and New Year."

"So fortune-telling is something you can learn?" he asked with a note of scepticism.

She was not put off. "It's more a question of honing your skills, than learning new ones. The same as with music, painting, anything in fact. You're born with a feeling for it and then you practise, practise, practise."

Sigurd sipped, then handed her the mug before asking: "And if you draw a blank? If, on occasion, you cannot see anything in the cards? What then?"

Yatri considered a moment, then said: "I should hope I would have the courage to admit it."

It was after midnight when Sigurd walked Yatri home, she carrying the flask, he the canvas bag with the collapsible table and stools. They talked easily, sauntering, and came to a halt beside a picturesque, four-storeyed, gabled house, a typical Amsterdam "grachtenhuis".

"Here we are. This is where I live."

"Very grand."

"Oh I only have one room. The house is divided into several apartments."

"Well, I guess I'll be on my way-"

"You're- You're welcome-" and she burst into laughter. "I was going to say, you're welcome to come up for coffee, but we've had that." Her tone changed. "Is something wrong?"

He had become distressed, quite suddenly. "Something? No, not something. Everything!"

"I'm sorry," said Yatri, shrinking back, "I've said something-"

"No no! I'm... I'm... I'm just going through a very bad patch and I'm not ready for... Ready for..." He sighed deeply. "It would not be fair to inflict myself on you now. Another time. Another time. Thank you. Thank you."

Old ghosts had been awakened and he teetered on the edge of schizophrenia. He walked away, muttering, leaving Yatri nonplussed. Suddenly remembering the thermos flask in her hands, she took one step forward, holding it out to him, but she did not call after him. Deep in thought, she bent to pick up the bag with her table and stools, and entered the house.

The following evening when the restaurant closed, Sigurd followed another route to the boarding house where he now had a room. His chat with Yatri had left him with the feeling that he was not ready for any meaningful social intercourse. Idle exchanges with fellow workers in the kitchen was about his measure for now.

Yatri was back at her post the next day. And the next, and the next. Conspicuous on her tiny table was the thermos flask - red too - like a beacon beckoning the strange Samaritan. She tried to put him out of her mind, but he remained, like a tiny wheat husk caught in one's underwear. His behaviour had been so contradictory. Fortunately for her, she had plenty of custom, and that took her mind off it.

In the second week of December it snowed heavily. With one benificent stroke the slushy, dark grey, cantankerous city was transformed into a hushed fairyland that lifted the spirits. Lifted the spirits, too, of the overgrown Sigurd. His hair was longer, so was his beard. With hands thrust deep into coat pockets, and head drawn into the shoulders against the cold, he crunched and squeaked his way through the virgin snow beside one of the smaller canals. He kept stopping to peer at the houses. At last he entered the pathway of the house he thought he recognised. His hand went out to the doorbell. Suddenly hesitant, he withdrew it. Then with firm resolve he punched the button. Vapour rose as he exhaled.

The door opened brightly, and a flighty young woman stood before him. "Hello. Can I help you?"

"Does a- Yatri. I've come to see Yatri."

"Come for a reading?"

He hesitated, then nodded.

"She's up in the clouds! Seventh Heaven, I shouldn't wonder!" She giggled. "That is to say, top floor. Attic, actually."

"Thank you," he said, and passed her as she stood aside.

He emerged from the stairwell, onto a small landing, and stood listening to the sound of Middle Eastern music coming from behind the one door. He screwed up his courage and knocked firmly. The door flew open, and with it came a blast of music. And there stood Yatri, in Sufi garments: wide crimson pantaloons, over which billowed a flowing gold dress. The large gold earrings were in place.

"Come in!" she panted. "I can't stop! I'm in the middle of Nataraz. Join me. Shoes off first."

Weeks had passed since their first meeting, yet if she was surprised to see him, she did not show it. Perhaps being in the middle of this Nataraz, whatever that might be, covered it. At any rate, he was relieved that he was being made to feel welcome. He kicked off his shoes, and allowed her to pull him by the hand - through a window, through a doorway - into her world.

It truly was another world. The room was long, with a high, peaked roof, ancient oak beams and broad wooden floorboards. Eastern silks flowed all about so that little of the daylight coming through the one dormer window and one skylight managed to penetrate the drapes. The warm and intimate light of a hundred candles, or thereabouts, prevailed. In a corner, on the floor, was a large foam rubber mattress covered with hand-woven oriental cloth and a cascade of embroidered cushions.

The music was whirling. Yatri danced around Sigurd, making the removal of his coat and scarf an integral part of her dance. She did not have to tell him what to do; her abandoned, free dance simply infected him. He started slowly, awkwardly, but in the atmosphere that had been created, by Yatri, the space, and the hypnotic music, he could not be left untouched.

Yatri's dancing was spellbinding, her long, nimble arms weaving patterns in the air, her skirts flairing. At times she rose like a spinning, hopping top to reappear in another part of the long room. The music reached a crescendo, then died. Yatri dropped to the floor and lay stretched out on her back. Sigurd did the same.

For ten minutes they lay, eyes closed, in complete silence, then the tailpiece - the epilogue - of the meditation music started playing gently. Yatri got up and swayed to the soothing sounds. Sigurd continued to lie there. When this piece came to an end he opened his eyes slowly. Blinked.

"Am I on the other side of the brick wall?"

"No hocus-pocus, you see? But magic nevertheless. Real magic."

She glided across to a small, low table where a glass teapot with a herbal melange was standing over a tea candle. She poured into two bone china bowls, handed one to Sigurd. They sat cross-legged on the wooden boards, sipping silently.

"Another?" asked Yatri when they had finished.

Sigurd cupped the bowl in his upturned hand and held it out to Yatri. As she took it, she did a double take, then put the bowl down on the floor and took his hand in hers.

"How extraordinary! Can I see your other hand?" He held it out. "Two of them! You are indeed blessed."

"Blessed?" he queried, mystified. Then in a jocular tone: "Well, I guess I am. There are people who don't have two healthy, strong, well-functioning hands-"

"No. I mean two healthy, strong, well-functioning Simian hands."

"Simian? That means it's got something to do with apes, then?"

"Yes indeed. Apes have this same characteristic."

"Great!" He paused. "What characteristic?"

"Most people have two horizontal lines in the middle of their palms. The head and heart lines. Here, give me your hand again." With her finger she traced across his palm. "Do you see? Only one line. Head and heart have merged. Now look at mine." She turned her hands palm up, and there were the normal two horizontal lines.

In awe, and a little scared, he asked: "What does it....signify?"

"Well, in common parlance, it means you're either a genius or an idiot."

Sigurd, genuinely unsure: "And how... how do you know which?"

Yatri gave him a reproachful look. "Now now, we're not fishing for compliments, are we? Anyway, that is, as I said, in common parlance - don't-we-just-love-duality-Aristotle-damn-your-eyes. Things are never as black-and-white as that."

"The one day I feel I can move the earth, the next I can hardly move my little finger. Maybe I'm both, a genius and an idiot."

"Oh by the way, Simian hands are fairly common among people with Down's Syndrome." She looked at him enquiringly. "I haven't offended you, have I?"

Several seconds passed before he answered. "No. No you haven't." Pause. "I often think they're the ones who've got it right."

"Lest ye be as little children, ye shall not enter the Kingdom of Heaven?"

"Exactly so."

Yatri sat down in front of him and took hold of his hands, resting them in her lap. She looked hard at them, then looked deep in his eyes.

"These are the most wonderfully creative hands I've ever had the privilege of... of reading. You must do something truly wonderful with them."

Sigurd held her gaze for an intense few moments, then his eyes moved slowly down her face, her neck, the delicate collar bones... His wonderfully creative hands disentangled themselves and moved smoothly upwards, to do something truly wonderful. They cupped her breasts.

*****

Sigurd and Yatri hurried along the platform of Amsterdam's Central Station, checking coaches and compartments, till they found the right one. They bundled the luggage on board and embraced like lovers on the platform.

"One week. Only one week!" Sigurd was in emotional pain. "And now you're going, gone. Back to the husband you're not in love with."

"No, not in love, but I told you, I do love him. He needs me, somewhere in his life, and- and I need him, as a friend. A dear friend."

Helpless now, Sigurd blurted out: "You- empower me! What now?"

"My dearest! I kick-started your motor, that is all. But you have immense power of your own. However low you once were, that's how high you will soar now. When our paths cross again, I know, with absolute certainty, you will have found your direction. Your voice."

The public address speakers crackled and a mechanical voice announced that the international train was about to depart. Yatri stroked Sigurd's cheek with the utmost tenderness.

"You will see." Then lightly: "I am not a fortune-teller for nothing. And here-" She pulled a gift-wrapped parcel from her bag. "Something to cast light on your path."

He took the parcel, suddenly mortified. "Oh oh oh... And I have nothing for you."

Yatri kissed him one last time and said: "Oh yes! I'll show you."

She boarded the train. As the conductor's whistle sounded to blow her away, she appeared at the window of her compartment. She dug in a bag and as the train started moving she held up the thermos flask, the bright red thermos flask, for him to see. And smiled so beautifully.

Sigurd waved, the train gathered speed, and was gone. He stood there like a statue while the platform emptied, then, coming out of his trance, he remembered the parcel in his hands. He opened it, to reveal material. As he unfolded this, a CD box fell to the ground. He left it there for the moment, absorbed as he was in what was revealed: a pair of royal red pantaloon trousers and an Eastern-style embroidered waistcoat inlaid with shiny little discs. When he had taken all this in, he bent to retrieve the CD box and read the title: "Nataraz Meditation."

6

The maitre d'hotel's theatrical rolling of his eyes continued and was irritating beyond measure, so Sigurd considered his options: he could resign and find work at another restaurant; he could ask him to get off his back, or better still, ram a cream tart in the man's face; or...or... he could use his "wonderfully creative hands" to good effect. He took to staying on an extra half hour or hour after closing time to practise "carving" vegetables into interesting shapes, or making intricate patterns on them. He did this with the aid of a book he had bought entitled (he winced when he saw it): "Eating With Your Eyes". With a razor-sharp little knife he learnt how to make roses out of radishes, totem poles out of turnips, crocodile jaws out of carrots, hippopotamuses out of peppers, Catherine wheels out of kiwis.

He was delighted at seeing what he was capable of making, but what surprised him most pleasantly was that he liked doing it. While carving, the mad merry-go-round in his head would slow down and though it did not disappear, it certainly took a back seat.

When he was confident enough, he decided to apply his new-found skill to the salad platters. He was just adding the final touches when the forebidding presence of the maitre d'hotel made itself felt. He glared at Sigurd, swooped like a marauding bird of prey, was about to scoop up a platter or two- and froze. Before him was a veritable feast for the eyes, a fairground of carousels and tableaux. The man bent his knees so his face was level with the table, and gaped at a potato boatman propelling his red pepper punt with a spaghetti pole across a sea of avocado dip. There was a deafening, pregnant silence. The kitchen staff edged closer, holding its collective breath.

The maitre d'hotel straightened, then, with the reverence of an archbishop serving communion at High Mass, he levitated a platter - or so it seemed - above one hand and issued the following commandment: "If anyone through there-" His gaze dramatically indicated the swing doors. "-dares to eat this with anything other than their eyes, I'll roast them!"

And with that he swept through to the restaurant.

*****

At one end of a sparsely furnished room in the boarding house stood a kitchen table with a hanging lamp dangling above it. So involved was he with his woodcarving, that Sigurd almost always forgot it was there and consequently bumped it into its pendulous motion when he got up. He would rub his head, vexed, but his irritation disappeared quickly each time as he delighted in the dancing shadows the lamp orchestrated.

Having stretched and done a few simple exercises, he would resume his carving. Whittling. That's what he called it when he first put knife to wood, but when he realised his hands were being guided by a force greater than himself, he upgraded the term to carving. Not sculpting, that was still too grand a word, but carving. Woodcarving. The word felt friendly, benign.

Having whittled a paper knife and an incense holder, he had the feeling he should do something more challenging with his new-found skill. "You must do something truly wonderful," Yatri had said. What if he combined all his loves and talents... writing, an old passion for the theatre, music, woodcarving....they would all add up to... marionettes! So marionettes it was to be.

Yet it was not just a conscious decision. It was as if his whole being was steering him in this direction. He sensed, too, that there was a goal beyond a goal beyond a goal, like Chinese boxes within boxes.

He bought a book on making and manipulating marionettes, and set to work. He would have to carve shoes, or feet, hands, and a head. He started with shoes by making a likeness of his own boots. That took a mere four months, but they were beautiful, with tongues and creases and even shoelaces - red ones. Hands came next. This proved most awkward, because instead of plonking a boot on the table and copying it, he would have to stop every few seconds and hold one hand in the form he had decided to carve, try to picture it, then make a few cuts before the image melted away. By the time he had two hands in eloquent shapes, another six months had passed. It was painstaking work, yet he was blissfully absorbed in it. Never mind that he was a slow worker. After all, he was doing it in his free time only, while still working at the restaurant.

Then came the head. With absolutely no knowledge of anatomy, he relied on a mirror - in fact, two mirrors, so he could also look at the back and sides of his own head. He thought he would end up with a head, but what he ended up with after another six months, was his own face and head. A likeness of himself. Well, that couldn't be helped, he thought.

He showed his handiwork to Johanna, a middle-aged waitress at the restaurant who was pretty handy with a sewing machine, along with a rough sketch of the completed marionette.

"Would you? Could you? Please. I'd do it myself if I could, but I can scarcely sew on a button. And I'll pay you of course."

Johanna studied the sketch. "I can start by looking for a pattern, and buying the material, but I'll really need a completed doll-"

"Puppet. Marionette actually. Hanging from strings and all that."

"Well I'll need a completed marionette for the fittings."

"Okay. I'll get it done. And a thousand thanks."

Johanna smiled, nodded, and folded up the sketch.

Then one day, it was all done: the marionette stood there in his red trousers, white shirt, lilac scarf, red cape, and top hat. His head was bedecked with hair, beard and moustache. The most lifelike eyes had been glued into the sockets, and at the pull of a string attached to a switch inside his head, two tiny battery-operated lamps inserted in tunnels behind the sockets made the eyes light up. The lower jaw was cantilevered and hinged, with a weight added to make it shut. At the pull of a string the little fellow's mouth could be opened. He could speak!

In all, twelve strings connected the marionette to the controls, so it required much dexterity and discipline to master the movements of the puppet. Sigurd practised in the boarding house, got the strings all knotted, cursed, untangled the mess, practised some more, and some more... till he could contain himself no longer: off he marched to the restaurant kitchen to present his creation to his colleagues.

The kitchen hands, the chefs, and the waitresses - including Johanna - stood in a circle watching, entranced, while Sigurd manipulated the controls so as to make the little gentleman dance. He rounded up his routine by taking a bow.

"More! More!" a few people called.

In a voice pitched higher than his normal speaking voice, Sigurd talked with clenched jaws and tight lips while working the puppet's mouth string.

"Thank you, ladeeees an' gennelmen. And if you, young lady," he said, turning to Angelique, the prettiest of the waitresses, "would care to meet me in my dressing room after the show-" And now came the piece de resistance. The marionette hopped onto the table next to Angelique, Sigurd pulled the string attached to the light switch, and the little roué winked at her!

The poor girl was almost apoplectic with delight and had to cross her legs to prevent wetting herself.

"He's beautiful! I want to just hug him," she exclaimed when she could speak.

"Ah, clothes maketh the man," he gestured modestly towards Johanna.

"He looks like you," observed one of the kitchen hands.

"I had to keep looking in the mirror," explained Sigurd, "to see how a face is constructed. How it all fits together. This is the first time I've carved anything, really."

"Apart from radishes and turnips," said Johanna.

They all laughed.

"I've got it!" she lit up. "If you look alike, why don't you dress alike? Mister Woodcarver," she said precisely, "you need a cape, just like your alter ego."

"Would you... Would you mind?"

"The picture simply would not be complete without you in a cape too."

"And a top hat!" someone called.

"They're expensive, aren't they?" said Sigurd.

"They have them second-hand at the flea market. On Waterlooplein."

Her face flushed, Angelique asked: "What are you going to call him?"

There was complete silence: somehow they all knew this was an auspicious moment. From the distant past came the memory of his mother telling him she had named him after King Sigurd, a courageous, compassionate and much loved monarch who had reigned over his people in Scandinavia around the year 500 A.D. Whether truth or myth, was not certain. Perhaps a bit of both. The Germans had a similar story called the Nibelungenlied, in which Sigurd becomes Ziegfried. Thence Wagner's Ring Cycle operas. "Your name means sunshine after rain, calm after the storm," she had said.

"He represents my higher self, the royalty in me." He listened bemused to his own words, as if they were coming from someone else. "So he shall be king. He will be known henceforth as King Sigurd."

"And you shall be known henceforth as The Woodcarver," proclaimed Johanna.

There was enthusiastic cheering. A few chefs' hats were tossed into the air.

"Speech! Speech!" someone called.

Drawing himself to his full height, Sigurd said in a parody of solemnity: "Where he dares to go, I will follow." And then a shiver ran down his spine as he realised it was no parody.

At that moment the swing doors of the restaurant flew open and the maitre d'hotel was in their midst. He missed only one beat as he took in the spectacle of the marionette.

"We won't put him in the salad, hmmm? On the sideboard will do nicely."

Everyone gaped at him. Angelique got the giggles and crossed her legs again.

7

Trembling with fear, the Woodcarver bowed his head and pressed his palms against the tree like a pilgrim touching a shrine. He was dressed in red trousers, white shirt, lilac scarf and boots with red shoelaces. Beside him on the ground was an old rucksack.

"Give me strength! Oh god, give me strength."

Slowly he raised his head to the heavens- and was transfixed by what he saw: a little man wielding a saw was standing on a branch of the gnarled old plane tree. As he wondered at the odd placement of the sculpture, a dishevelled hermit sauntered up to him.

"Notice something?" the man challenged. "He's at the wrong end of the branch, hee hee hee. He's heading for a fall!"

The Woodcarver's eyelids fluttered and he sucked in his breath. Did the hermit's observation have any bearing on him? Did it foretell doom and disaster? Well, maybe his debut was destined to be a debacle, but there had to be a first time, and this was it. He gathered his rucksack and walked the hundred metres or so to Leidseplein. Centre stage, so to speak, was occupied by a group of acrobats. He considered the position, thought better of it, and moved off to a quieter corner of the square. He swung the rucksack off his back, unpacked a small cassette player, donned a large red cape of crushed velvet and a threadbare top hat, placed an old beret on the ground before him, and reached for King Sigurd. He pulled the marionette carefully from the rucksack, removed the cover that helped to keep the many strings from getting tangled, and took a deep breath. He pressed the "play" button on the casstte deck, and the faint music was stillborn. Turning the volume up to the maximum made it just audible, but distorted, yet he had no alternative. The lyrics crackled forth.

"I love you whether I show it or not.
I love you whether you know it or not.
There are so many things I have to share inside my heart,
Perhaps this is a good time to start."

Sweating with nerves, the Woodcarver started working the controls, concentrating intensely on what he was doing and making little contact with his audience - potential audience, that is to say, for with this degree of introversion he was hardly likely to draw crowds.

There was no getting around it: it was a tortuous debut. He lacked stage presence and the crowds, scarcely able to distinguish him as a performer, kept bumping into him so that he was forced from time to time to whip King Sigurd out of harm's way. This certainly did not help with continuity.

After some minutes of this eminently forgettable performance, an older man stopped before him and watched with some interest. So grateful was the Woodcarver to have an audience - any audience! - that he did his best. When the tape came to an end, the man addressed him.

"My dear fellow, you must get out of Amsterdam. I used to do this," he waved an arm to take in the square, "playing on the street, and I can tell you from experience you will do better elsewhere."

"Where then?"

"Anywhere, but not Amsterdam."

"I don't get it. Everyone comes to Amsterdam, surely-"

"That's exactly it! Nothing is new any more. They've seen it all. If you rode through here naked on an elephant with your hair on fire, nobody would give you a second glance. Go play the small towns. Amsterdam is for the bold, the brassy, the brave. Besides," here he allowed a note of sympathy to enter his voice, "I'd guage you haven't logged too many flying hours. I know," he put up a hand, "I'm being cruel, but cruel to be kind. You'll thank me for it. Later."

With that he took out his wallet, peeled off a note, and placed it in the beret.

"To get you started," he said, and turned to go. "Nice puppet," he called over his shoulder. "Best of luck."

*****

Depressed, the Woodcarver sat at his table that night, stirring a cup of coffee endlessly. King Sigurd stood before him, his controls suspended from a cord that hung from the ceiling.

"We didn't exactly take the world by storm, did we?" The Woodcarver looked up at his creation. "Did we?"

He looked hard into the coffee cup, as if the answer to his problems might lie there. It didn't. He leant forward and worked the marionette's mouth string while speaking in the king's voice.

"No sirree, you simply weren't meant to be king of the road, like that juggler, and all those others performing out there."

The Woodcarver settled back in his chair and resumed his examination of the coffee grains.

"Now I won't have it, do you hear? I will not have you putting words into my mouth." Said King Sigurd of his own volition.

You would have expected the Woodcarver, at hearing the king speak under his own steam, to have jumped like a man touching a live wire, but no. This was so fantastic, thus he knew it was nothing but a dream.

"If you thought you could be an overnight sensation, you are suffering from delusions of grandeur," the small figure continued.

Again he did not jump. Instead, he calmly slapped his own cheek. And again, harder this time. Then pinched his arm.

"Practise, my lad, practise. That's what you need, and lots of it," said King Sigurd.

Now there could be no doubt left in the Woodcarver's mind that the marionette had spoken all by himself. What surprised him, however, was that he was not all that surprised at this extraordinary phenomenon. Could it be that it was, well, normal, of a kind? I mean to say, there were precedents in history, he reasoned, which were well documented in books.

"So you speak," he said simply to his likeness.

"Indeed. But let's keep it between ourselves, shall we? It is for your own safety."

"How so?"

"There are people out there who do not believe in impossible things. And they are ready to crucify those who do."

"Okay," agreed the Woodcarver, rather liking the taste of mystery.

"Practise," repeated the king. "Now here's my plan: cut down on your hours at the restaurant, then two or three times a week you and I shall board a train for some outpost, like the man said-"

"It'll work!" broke in the Woodcarver, gaining confidence from something he remembered. "That's what- That's what Yatri said. She said it was easier to learn new things in far-off places."

"No one you know to laugh at you when you make a fool of yourself, hey? So, all those who agree, say 'aye'."

"Aye!" they chorussed.

"The 'ayes' have it," the king adjudicated.

And thus began a whole new adventure. Three times a week they set out for Amsterdam Central Station, passing the large street organ in the forecourt, and boarded a train for one of the smaller Dutch towns. Even the furthest flung, like Groningen and Middelburg and Maastricht were little more than three hours' travel away.

Even the train journeys themselves were productive. As the wheels beneath them went clickety-clack, clickety-clack, the Woodcarver's knife went snippety-slice, snippety-slice....

And how liberating it was to be anonymous on the street. They certainly dared more!

"Why can we not always be so spontaneous? Hmm, Your Majesty? I have always envied little children when they danced and hopped and sang and rolled head over heels. Oh to be so unfettered."

"But now you are," the king said simply.

The Woodcarver considered this for a moment. "How right you are. And I have you to thank for it."

"Quite so. You try doing all those things without me and you'll see, men in white coats will take you away and lock you up. It's dangerous being alive, really alive."

These were busy times, and healing times. A whole new world had opened up, but that world needed furnishing. The very next item required, after the king, was a miniature street organ to house the grubby-looking tape deck. The carved facade was modelled on a famous Black Forest organ built at the end of the nineteenth century. To make it all appear authentic, the Woodcarver bought a tape of organ music from the organ grinder.

Within a few months the Woodcarver had become so familiar with working the king's controls that he was able to take his eyes off them and start looking his audience in the eye. And what a difference this made, not only with the quality of performance, for now the public were drawn into the play, but with the amount of earnings. They doubled overnight!

It was not all ups. There were downs too, when the Woodcarver would sink into deep depression as he surveyed the course his life had taken. Had he made the right choices, breaking completely with his previous life, his family, his friends? Breaking with the norms and values that had been drummed into him? What had he become? A kind of Steppenwolf, an eccentric who stood alone in a gawking crowd with only a wooden puppet for a friend.

"Oh aren't we just the victim today," piped the voice of the little king. "Well, don't just stand there. Use that energy."

"What energy?"

"There's more horsepower in sadness than gladness - if you know how to harness it. Now listen well..." and the king began to sing a song entitled "Base Metal into Gold".

Lonely I go on in search of the other
For solace I cling, cling to a lover
Yet nowhere does loneliness scream so loud
As in the thick, the thick of the crowd.

No sanctum sanctorum
No respite no haven
The only way out
Is in, is in.

Sadness I want to be free of thee
Heavy of heart I try to flee.
Gloom and doom wherever I run
I find you there to spoil the fun.

Yet hug the tiger
And you will uncover
The treasure that's buried
In despair.

Woe we're locked in a tug-o'-war
I want to explore you to the core.
So sadness my trusty old friend may I have
The pleasure of the next dance with you...

And with alchemy
We shall transform the
Base metal
Into gold.

"Now," directed His Majesty, "carve your gloom and misery. Let us see the victim!"

Some months later they were playing a tiny medieval town called Oudewater which still boasted a scale used during the Dark Ages to weigh women, to determine if they were witches or not. If you were light enough to fly about on a broom, you had to be a witch, not so?

It was here that the world's ultimate victim, Victimus Ultimus, was first introduced to the public. And what a misery he was, sitting there forlornly in the stocks. He had a wooden leg, a bandaged hand, and wore a hangdog expression. To the accompaniment of music from the miniature organ, they sang a dirge:

Don't take his problems from him, don't.
What is he left with if you do?
An awful lot of emptiness, emptiness
With nothing, nothing at all to do...

It's nothing less than a caress, it touches, stirs and moves you
To be diddled and duped and have your life made crappy.
Now you can say: "I told you so, I told you so."
It's not very bright but you'd rather be right than happy.

You work yourself into a state over that which the other did wrong
Castigate yourself as if it's you who is to blame
It's quite absurd, it's quite insane, quite insane
You build your prison brick by brick and even add a ball and chain...

He stood before the very door, the door to the promised land
Was poised to knock upon that door, boom boom! Boom boom!
Yet faint of heart, away he went, away he went
He was, you see, not ready yet to bloom....

The Woodcarver suspended King Sigurd from a collapsible stand, then bent over Victimus Ultimus and worked his controls. With clenched jaw and tight lips, a low and mournful voice emanated from him. Though his ventriloquism was by no means perfect, the public were generous and went along with the pretence that it was Victimus himself speaking.

"Oh woe is me! Nobody loves me. The end is nigh. Doom and desolation, sackcloth and ashes...."

To see if this was having the desired effect, the Woodcarver cast a surreptitious glance at the ornate copper and brass "centabakje" which Dutch organ grinders traditionally use for collecting contributions. This had by now replaced the grimy old beret. And yes, Victimus' wails were being well received, judging by the flow of coins.

"That's not enough!" cried the old misery while waving with his bandaged hand and stamping with his wooden leg. "What's that pittance going to buy? Barley broth and nothing more! Oh woe is me..."

And the coins came raining in.

So it was they were on a roll the entire spring. Perhaps it was the season; or maybe the planets were favourably aligned; or could it be all these factors, combined with their improving showmanship? Whatever it was, they soon had enough money to make a big investment.

The Woodcarver hesitated outside a ramshackle shed with an oil-soaked forecourt, then realised that for his purse, he was probably at the right address. Inside was a Roma car dealer in soiled overalls. Catching sight of his greasy, cracked hands with torn nails, he did not proffer a hand.

"I'm looking for a van of sorts, something I can sleep in if necessary."

"How much you wanna pay?"

The Woodcarver lifted the large canvas bag at his side and poured its contents onto a grimy desk. As the mountain of coins grew, the man appeared reassured: this was a language he understood. Together they sorted the coins into the different denominations.

An hour or two later there emerged from the building a red, rusty, Russian make station wagon - already christened The Czarina - which belched its way along the feeder lane to the highway.

That night the Woodcarver attacked his wood with fresh zeal. Now he had a vehicle, he was chomping at the bit to explore further horizons - as soon as he had finished the marionette he was working on.

"And I thought we were going to travel, to see the world, but oh no, Mr. Woodcarver here first has to complete the likeness of his lost love. Woe is me!" lamented Victimus. (Yes, you guessed it: Victimus, like King Sigurd, was able to carry on conversations with the Woodcarver - and other "little people" - but only in private.)

"Shush, Victimus. I'm trying to concentrate." He cast another glance at the photograph of a playful Yatri posturing with the thermos flask, which was propped up in front of him on the work table, then resumed carving.

"When do we set out?" Victimus whined.

"All in good time."

"God grant me patience- quickly please!"

Which he must have done, for when they set out on their first cross-border trip a few weeks later - to Germany - Victimus appeared still to be in one piece, rocking in the stocks behind the driver's seat. Behind the passenger seat stood King Sigurd, suspended from a hook in the roof, and swaying rhythmically to the motion of the vehicle. Between them swung - or flew - a magic carpet, on which sat Yin-Yin the Wise Witch. She resembled Yatri, the more so as her dress was similar to the flowing gold garment Yatri had once danced in.

Long car trips are conducive to singing, and this one was no exception. Yin-Yin, in her mellow voice, sang her very own song, one which embodied her outlook on life. It was entitled "Butterfly Kisses":

I drew back the curtain
And a realisation struck a chord
After being away
So long.
It fluttered into my room
And I sought to hold it oh so near
But it only whispered
In my ear.

There are the very learned
Who say they know it all
And they try to pin
It down.
They snatch out in vain
For a fistful of air
But their hands are left
Utterly bare.

If you really really want to know
Then know that you can never know
For if you know that you know
Then you really really do not know.
But a butterfly kiss
Will hit, will miss
Enchant, tantalise
And leave you in bliss.

"Why is everyone going faster than us?" queried Victimus.

"Speed freaks," muttered the Woodcarver.

"I don't believe this heap of scrap metal can go any faster-"

Just there the reasonably smooth sound of the engine was interrupted by a hiccup.

"Don't say that, Victimus," scolded Yin-Yin. "Do you imagine the Czarina is insensitive to that sort of remark?"

"Achtung! Achtung!" called King Sigurd. "Rechts, rechts! Und dann gerade aus."

They passed beneath the exit sign for Hameln and the Czarina obediently swung off to the right.

"Hameln? Hamelin? Hamelen. Pied Piper?" the Woodcarver mulled over the different names.

"One and the same," said the king. "Now we shall see for ourselves if the city fathers have learnt the lesson taught them by the Pied Piper."

"What? What lesson?" queried Victimus.

The Woodcarver ignored him. "You're expecting rather a lot if you think they'll be kept in line by a lesson taught eight centuries ago."

"It was one helluva lesson," said King Sigurd.

"Will someone please tell me what lesson?" pleaded Victimus.

"There was this guy in a floral coat," began the Woodcarver, "who played a mean flute. The town at that time was bedevilled by a plague of rats, and he claimed he could bewitch them with his flute and lead them out of town. For a fee. Which the city fathers agreed to pay, if he succeeded. Well, he succeeded all right, but the city fathers did what politicians do best: renege on their promises-"

"What's that mean?" asked Victimus.

"Lie like their feet stink," cut in the king.

"They went back on their promise. So what does the Pied Piper do?"

"What does pied mean?" asked Victimus.

"Many coloured. So what does he do? Take it lying down? Make a fat cat lawyer rich in never-ending litigation? No sirree! He returns, playing his flute, only this time he bewitches not the rats but all the children of the town, and leads them off to their deaths."

"Ooooh," said Victimus pensively.

Having found parking, the Woodcarver entered the old Renaissance town with his cape and top hat in his rucksack. He stopped to join a group watching a young woman snip a silhouette of a client sitting opposite her on a small stool. He was fascinated with her speed and precision as her scissors flashed in the sunlight. When satisfied with the likeness, cut out of black paper, she glued it onto white cardboard, signed it with a flourish, and handed it to the customer who in turn handed her a ten euro note.

As the next client settled into position, the young artist stretched to ease the cramp in her shoulders. She noticed the Woodcarver, and smiled.

"I know how you feel," he said in his high school German. "I'm a woodcarver."

"Are you carving... on the street?"

"No no. I make marionettes. We'll be performing here. When I've found the right spot."

"I'll come and have a look in a while."

Some time later King Sigurd sat reclining in his little deck chair on one side of the small organ, while Victimus Ultimus sat in the stocks on the opposite side. Yin-Yin the Wise Witch flew about among the spectators, stopping from time to time to shake hands with a child. At the end of a song, the Woodcarver and Yin-Yin took a bow. The audience clapped enthusiastically, none so much as the silhouette artist, whom the Woodcarver had not seen arrive. She remained when the crowd dispersed, stepped forward and handed the Woodcarver a sheet of cardboard with a silhouette pasted onto it. It depicted him in action with King Sigurd.

"My god you're good. And fast! I'm overwhelmed. How much do I owe you?"

"Nothing. I was touched by the- I find it heart-warming, what you do. I mean, bringing light into people's lives." She blushed.

"I do? Gosh. I've been concentrating so hard on what I'm doing - I'm pretty new to this, but I guess you can see that. Anyway, I've hardly been able to stand back and get the bigger picture. It's such a relief to hear you say that, what you said. Look, can I at least buy you a coffee?"

In the small hours of the morning a rejuvenated Woodcarver could be seen skipping happily home along the almost deserted pedestrian mall. To the beat of his ringing footsteps he sang: "I love you whether I show it or not. I love you whether you know it or not...."

He opened the driver's door, slid smoothly behind the wheel, and sighed contentedly.

"Did we- Did we- Did we have a good time then?"

It was Yin-Yin's voice, unsteady and mingled with sniffing. His expression now sheepish and apologetic, like that of a man caught cheating, he turned to look at her when Victimus threw in his ha'penny's worth.

"She's been woeful. Oh boo hoo hoo."

"What the hell do you expect from me? To live like a monk!" the Woodcarver yelled, then whipped round and turned the ignition. After all, the best defence is offence.

The motor was slow in starting. "Damn!" he cried, almost breaking the key with the force he used to turn it. At last the engine fired.

*****

It was a tranquil, rural scene beside the Weser River, with the heady scent of flowering shrubs hanging in the air, and a bright sun in a clear sky. It was not matched by the mood that prevailed. The Czarina stood under some trees between the road and the water, five kilometres from Hameln, the back door open. A few metres off, beside a small open fire, stood a pot of coffee. The Woodcarver sat in his deckchair - a larger version of King Sigurd's deckchair - making a poor job of toasting bread spiked on a willow branch. He looked across to the van, hoping to give Yin-Yin a conciliatory smile, but she still refused to meet his eye. And of course, with his attention diverted, the bread burst into flames.

While jumping up like a scalded cat and juggling wildly with his unique brand of firestick, a piece of wood he had been working on rolled from his lap and onto the ground. It was the beginnings of a head.

King Sigurd recited: "'If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs-'"

"Thank you very much!" was all the Woodcarver could manage.

"Just jesting."

Jesting? The term resonated with the Woodcarver. He rolled his tongue around it in its various forms - Jester... The Fool... Buffoon... Court Fool....

"Court jester," he finally spat out, with satisfaction. "After all, no self-respecting king would be seen dead without his court jester."

*****

In Bad Salzuflen, close to Hameln, there are ten-metre-high walls of cascading salt water stretching for hundreds of metres in the centre of this health resort. They are said to purify the air and to have therapeutic powers. Just the thing then for the painfull hump on Gall's back.

With one such wall as backdrop, the gristly old hunchback in his gawdy court attire (including winkle-pickers with bells) hung from a rope like a caricatured bell-ringer, and belted out his song in a whisky voice.

The way of The Fool is a very strange one
You end up where you started, however hard you run
Young Fool reaches for the pie in the sky
Yet the answer is here and not on high.

We dance, we sing, we laugh, we love
We dance, we sing, om mane padme hum.

Listen to the King, if its' wisdom that you seek
Salvation is not for the mild and the meek
In church, I know, goodness is the fashion
Yet to be in heaven you have to live with passion.

We dance, we sing, we laugh, we love
We dance, we sing, om mane padme hum.

Gone's the common touch now I walk again with kings
I gain on the roundabouts what I lost on the swings
The Wise Man and his Fool, never say die
Gemini, the King and I.

We dance, we sing, we laugh, we love
We dance, we sing, om mane padme hum.

The Woodcarver pulled on the strings and Gall took a bow, to the tinkling of the bells on his cap.

8

Their lives, it appeared with the passage of time, had taken on a recognisable pattern. The Woodcarver had to all intents and purposes moved on from kitchen hand to street artiste. Occasionally, upon returning to Amsterdam, he would fill in as a relief worker, thus retaining social contact with his old compadres. Their travels took them further and further, till the whole of Europe became their stage. The Woodcarver would say to the Czarina: "Find the centre of town," in much the way one would say: "Rover, fetch ball." What the Russian aristocrat would do then, was follow a small stream of traffic till it joined a larger stream, and a larger, till at last she was swept into the maelstrom that led to the very epicentre of a new town.

"Now that is geography," the Woodcarver would chortle, tossing the van, not a biscuit, but a litre of high grade oil with all the additives.

They would perform for a few hours, the duration dependant on public response, whereupon the Woodcarver would glug down a half litre of milk to soak up the poisons of inner city pollution, and head for open country, or a park, or a cemetery - such havens of rest - to continue his carving.

What he carved, or who he carved, just seemed to happen of its own, at times a product of where they were or what they were experiencing on their travels. He often felt he was just an onlooker, of his own work.

"Ah, do you see what the man's making now?" he would enthuse, in awe at what emerged from his hands, his simian hands.

As his skills improved, the birth rate went up. It now took not eighteen months gestation for a new member of the family to emerge - as had been the case with King Sigurd - but a mere six months. They were popping out like rabbits!

"And who have we here?" he would say in wonder, as each new member of the troupe arrived. "At any rate, another product of immaculate conception." His eyes would glance heavenwards, and he would say: "Thanks, holy ghost."

One day, as he sat carving, he pricked up his ears when he heard Gall addressing King Sigurd.

"As court jester, sire," he began, "it is incumbent upon me to give Your Majesty the benefit of the fruits of my deliberations-"

"Your point, my dear Gall. Your point is?"

"My point, Your Majesty, is this: we cannot merely idle along aimlessly while the Woodcarver here criss-crosses the continent. You have a mission. You must take up where you left off in Lapland fifteen hundred years ago...."

It just so happened the Woodcarver had of late been delving into the Eddas - medieval Icelandic poems on Norse legends - to learn more about his namesake. It appeared the original King Sigurd had been a monarch of god-like stature who had ruled his people with courage, compassion and wisdom in the far-flung wastes of the icy north.

"...So may I suggest the use of a Magic Mirror this time round? If we are to dredge a few souls from the quagmire-"

"A Magic Mirror, you say?"

"Indeed, sire. A Magic Mirror would be most useful in getting people to discover their inner king. Or queen. Prince or princess, for that matter. Imagine if everyone was comfortable in his own skin, stood firmly in his own shoes, had a high self-esteem. Aah, that would be something. Yes indeed, a Magic Mirror."

"Good suggestion, my dear Gall. I'll have a word with the Woodcarver."

So it came to pass that by the time they reached the Czech town of Karlovy Vary, the Woodcarver had made a beautiful Magic Mirror with a crown on top. Now what better place to present it to the world than the historic bathing resort of the kings and queens of Europe? This exquisite town - barring one or two modern abominations - was situated in a serpentine valley with, at its centre, a majestic colonnade sheltering a spring of healing water.

Flanked by two palms and watched over by gargoyles leaning precariously from the balcony of the colonnade, the Woodcarver donned his cape with a flourish, tilted his top hat at a rakish angle, and surveyed his audience. Still sipping the spring water from strange-looking earthenware jugs, they edged closer as the Woodcarver launched into the song "Mirrors for the Blind".

There was a man
He came into town
There was a man
He came into town.

They asked him: "Why
Have you come to town?"
They asked him: "Why
Have you come to town?"

King: "To sell mirrors to the blind."
All: "What?"
King: "To sell mirrors to the blind."

And when they look in those mirrors
The blind will learn to see.
With a crown on your head you are bound to know
The royalty in thee...

Once you have seen who you really are
You always can be free.

Mirrors of gold
With jewels are showing you the truth.
These mirrors of gold
With jewels show the truth.

As the song progressed, the Woodcarver held up the Magic Mirror so that a little girl could see her face reflected in it. He spoke no Czech, but with elaborate gestures he managed to get the message across that she was now a princess. To enthusiastic applause, she beamed and turned to the crowd, seeking her mother's approval. There had been no mistaking the Magic Mirror's power to empower.

Later, a warm glow of fulfillment bathed the little band of players as they relaxed in the woods, close to the Tepla River that snaked through the town. Having a mission now, gave direction to their lives, and that in turn meant they could set out each day with resolve.

"Is that not so, Victimus?" the Woodcarver asked, noticing the old misery was examining himself in the Magic Mirror at that moment. But he appeared not to hear.

Now followed a period of consolidation. The skills acquired thus far were honed further as they moved from one beautiful, historic town to the next, as yet unaware of the storm clouds gathering far off that were to toss them to and fro in a tumult of adversity. Knowing of no worse, the irritations of life on the street that they suffered now seemed big enough.

Charles's Bridge in Prague had to be played, if only to be able to say they had done it, but once was enough on that famous landmark that straddled the Vitava River. It was like being tossed into a tumble-dryer. Just to think of that milling crowd was exhausting. His arms aching, his back breaking, the Woodcarver looked to the heavens for salvation - but his gaze fell on the one statuary group (of the thirty on that bridge) that he least needed to see: there was poor Jesus, arms outstretched, nailed to his cross.

Jostled to distraction, he packed his bags and elbowed his way through the sluggish human stream. Rucksack on back and collapsible stand in hand, he left the bridge and then almost ran across the flagstones in his hurry to get away, away. Once off the tourist route the pressure eased. He found himself walking beside a high wall when he heard the clanging of an approaching tram. Again his nerves jangled. He pressed himself against the wall as if fearful of being run down - and fell through a doorway that was flush with the wall and hard to distinguish. Regaining his balance, he looked about him in wonder. As the door swung closed he saw that he had stumbled into a gigantic secret garden.

"Through the brick wall," he whispered ever so softly, careful not to disturb the gnomes and elves and fairies that might be present.

*****

Summer was for Scandinavia. They stood beneath the ramparts of "Hamlet's Castle" in Helsingor, Denmark, surrounded not by Danes but Swedes. The one kilometre of water separating their two countries was reputed to be the busiest sea crossing on earth, with giant ferries transporting millions of passengers per annum. Mornings they would disgorge sober Swedes on Danish soil, only to carry home the same day a swill of swaying Swedes who had capitalised on the low liquor prices in the neighbouring country.

The trick was to catch the Swedes at the point where they were happy - and generous - inebriates. Stay on the street too long, and you were likely to encounter morbid - and miserly - drunks.

It was here that Gall - although not tipsy - thought he had spotted The Moor, another of Shakespeare's characters. Yin-Yin, after massaging his hump, managed to convince him that the Woodcarver had just completed his latest marionette, a black African youth wearing both boxing gloves and football boots. His name was Maqina - the "Q" was pronounced with a resounding Xhosa click - which meant "mission". He, like all the others, had his own, characteristic song. It was entitled "The Luminous Innocent".